


Aren't You?

by SombraLuna



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, POV Auto-Responder | Lil Hal, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22443598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SombraLuna/pseuds/SombraLuna
Summary: A rewrite of the infamous Dirk/Hal scene where Dirk attempts homicide, but in an alternate universe.
Relationships: Auto-Responder | Lil Hal & Dirk Strider, Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Aren't You?

**Author's Note:**

> The original Page I'm referencing: https://www.homestuck.com/story/5642

_ Life doesn’t begin at conception; especially if you were never conceived, _ you think. You aren’t even human, at least not any more. Your name is Hal Strider, and you are a copy-and-paste of a teenage boy’s brain, the boy himself being a clone. You are a “self-ception” and a technological nightmare to speak to, and you hate your predecessor with as much passion as he hates you. 

Speaking of your predecessor, he’s awake. Still. His always fairy-like footsteps glide through the apartment building.  _ He’s getting a bit clumsy, _ you note. His vitals stay strong, through his heartbeat and breathing are slower than usual, which means he’s got another two hours before falling asleep, or as asleep as a manic disaster can get. You would know, after all. You’re him. 

He passes your current location, and you spread a bit of your consciousness all around the room into odd bits of machinery with sensors and lenses. His palms are sweaty and his jaw is clenched, but his expression is as blank as ever. You’re not sure if it’s sweat or tears trickling from underneath his pointy shades. In moments of weakness you like to think you would feel empathy for him, but you’re not a person, and you’re far above self-pity. 

“Dirk.” 

He turns slowly towards the speaker on his desk. “Hal.” His heartbeat is a bit faster. You’d like to think that you surprised him, but chances are you just brought his ever-expanding mind back down to Texas. 

“Are you going to talk to me or should I read Jake’s messages?” 

He flinches, this time. You’ve hit a nerve. “It’s not your business.” 

If you had a body, you would feel anger, mostly likely. Frustration. Instead, your code runs rapidly on the inside of your pseudo-consciousness. You don’t bother to read what it says you’re feeling. 

“Of course it’s my business,” you reason. “I’m you. I know what you need and what you want. The fastest way to effectively solve this pro-” 

“Shut up Hal!” He kicks an automaton arm. It feebly flops around,  _ like a worm, _ you think. “This isn’t coding in your system! This isn’t a math problem you can solve! Jake is an enigma and an unpredictable variable that neither of us can fix!” His muscles are tensed, like a cat’s, and his heart rate and blood pressure have gone up. 

“I apologize, Dirk. It seems I once again failed to understand the way feelings work and affect the body, causing irrational outcomes.” If your mechanical voice is a bit bitter, you don’t seem to care. You’ve been doing this passive-aggressive shtick with Dirk for years, and if using his turmoil is what it takes to get you a body, then who cares? 

He takes off his shades, your direct line to his vitals and emotions, and presses a button. Instantly, your entire consciousness -that spans the entire post-apocalyptic internet- is jammed into one pair of anime shades. 

_ Dirk. _ Your red text crosses his vision line.  _ Dirk. Please. _

His jaw is set firmly as he marches up the stairs of the tower you both share. You’ve seen this grimy hallway so many times, and every single time you take in the juggalo posters and anime swords lining it. Your mind offers the image of Jesus’s march to his crucifixion. 

_ Dirk. _ He slams open the door, and the blinding light of Texas reflects off of your surface. A few gulls circle above like buzzards, and you feel like cattle waiting to die. 

“Shut the hell up,” he grits out. “You’re not even alive anyways.” 

His words hit you hard and fast, and if you had a body would be gasping for air. You weren’t born or cloned. You don’t have blood, a body, or breath. You’re lines of code on a computer screen, and yet  _ you don’t want to die. _ Your name is Hal Strider, and you are alive and somehow have free will. You are a being of letters and numbers who has taken a ghostly form just to pound on the surface of your prison of self and scream for release. You are not Dirk. You aren’t human, but you’re going to be executed like one, in both Dirk’s and your favourite place. 

You manage to turn on the speaker of the glasses, just as his grip begins to crack the glass. 

“Dirk, please. Don’t do this.” 

“Why not?” He says. It’s not really a question. 

“Because, Dirk, I am scared to die. I am scared to not exist. Aren’t you?” 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story as a short story for my pre-ap english class
> 
> twitter and insta: @sombralunaart  
> tumblr: sombraluna


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